


Burn and Rave at Close of Day

by feverbeats



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never quite believed that anything could live so long, but now he can ask how the Face of Boe managed it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn and Rave at Close of Day

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas. This fic, is, um. What can I say, really? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

  
At the end of his first regeneration cycle, stumbling along in his thirteenth body, the Master can smell death. It crackles at the edges of his nostrils like fire, and the Doctor is nowhere to be found. Something is wrong.

The Master has trouble traveling, now. His TARDIS doesn't respond to him, and he thinks he's worked out why. She's still alive, and he is dying quickly these days. He touches the controls and she hardly responds, almost as though there's nothing left to respond to. His hands rustle against the console and his cloak rustles against the floor.

_I am become death_, he whispers, his throat too dry for articulation. It's a quotation from a human man, and therefore utterly inappropriate to his situation, but he takes an odd sort of comfort in it. Human things have always reminded him of the Doctor, and if there's any chance that he'll find a way out of his oncoming death, it's surely the Doctor who will be his salvation. Knowing that there's someone in the universe as brilliant as the Doctor who'll save him every time is both comforting and amusing. And infuriating, a bit.

But the Doctor is certainly taking his time. He's running around time and space in a stupid scarf and not coming to the Master's rescue, even by accident. Perhaps the Master will have to take matters into his own hands.

He catches himself wondering if there's anything after death, but the question seems a bit irrelevant. He will _not_ die. Besides, he payed enough attention in school to know about the Matrix. At least something of him will be preserved.

But he does not intend to die like a Time Lord. He does not intend to die at all.

New New (New New New New New New New New New New New New New New) York is too new. The Master shuffles through the streets with his hood up and his breath crackling in this throat as he breathes the new air and watches the new people go about their lives, which, while sorter than the life of a Time Lord, are all longer that the time the Master has left.

A being with foolish-looking wide eyes bobbing on stalks shoves its way in front of the Master, halting his progress. "Tell your fortune?" it sputters as his TARDIS translates jerkily.

The Master laughs, and it hurts. "No," he says. "I know what's coming."

The creature nods. "Death," it says. "Death is coming."

The Master moves faster than he would have thought possible, snaking a hand out to grab the creature by the throat. "That's where you're wrong," he hisses. "Death is not coming for me. Not ever. I despise charlatans."

Before he can force his weak fingers to crush the creature's windpipe, though, he senses something. His mind has been sparking and stuttering lately, so for a moment he isn't sure what he's feeling. But the Time Lords have spent a long time being very good at directing their psychic energies usefully, and the Master lets go of the creature instinctively. There is something on this world that he needs to see.

Leaving the creature dazed behind him, he walks through the streets again, weaving under arches and through alleys. It's almost as though the rush of coming death has sharpened his psychic abilities, and he walks with purpose now.

It's not long before he finds his way into a large, impressive building that has been left unlocked. It does not look like a home, but it feels lived-in. There is something alive here. Something old. He climbs the wide, old-fashioned staircase, breathing hard enough that he has to pause at the top, panting and gripping the railing. Something has to change.

There is a door at the top of the stairs. The Master goes inside.

"_You_," the Master whispers. He's heard of the Face of Boe, of course, but he's never managed to run across the thing. For most of his life, the Face of Boe has been a concept in the back of his mind, something to fall back on when things got desperate. He never quite believed that anything could live so long, but now he can ask how the Face of Boe managed it. This may be the way out he's been seeking.

The Face smiles almost imperceptibly. "You."

"You've heard of me?" The Master tries not to be flattered, but it's hard.

The Face makes a derisive noise. "Yes," he says.

The Master steps closer to the craggy face. He wants to touch it. He wants to feel that kind of power. "So much life," he hisses between his dry lips. "You've lived for millions of years."

"Billions," the Face of Boe says. "I am one of the oldest beings in the world. Older than the Time Lords."

A shiver runs down the Master's spine, but he ignores it. He isn't sure the thing is telling the truth, now. "But you're alive," he presses. As if there is nothing, nothing more important than clinging to life with his crumbling fingers. And in that moment, there isn't.

"I am the last of my kind," the Face of Boe says. He looks as though he might be sad, but the Master can't tell. "I've seen everyone I love die around me. Because of me. They've bled out and drowned and been shot to death and walked into it willingly because of me."

The Master snorts. "You sound like him. Only he wouldn't sound so remorseful about it." He doesn't feel the need to specify who he's talking about. If the Face has heard of the Master, he's heard of the Doctor.

The Face of Boe's eyes flicker. "You mean the Doctor. Once upon a time, I would have killed to live his life. Perhaps I still would."

The Master laughs. Pathetic. Even this ancient being is obsessed with the Doctor. Sometimes the Master feels like the only sane one. "And I'd kill to have as many regenerations left as he does. We're neither of us careful, but I'm much worse. I need to keep up, though."

There is a brief silence. Then the Face of Boe says, "You are so young."

Something in his voice infuriates the Master, who feels anything but young. The end of his life is rushing toward him, crackling and slipping, and he can feel time running out. He is running out of time. Such a strange expression, not at all the same in Gallifreyan as in English. "I'm running out of time," he says in standard Earth English.

"You are just a child," the Face of Boe sighs. "And you're a fool. If you think your life is over, you're truly stupid. Unfortunately, you have a few more years left in you."

Hope flares in the Master's chest. He didn't realize until the Face spoke how uncertain he'd been about his future. "I'm going to live," he says. "I'm going to live, and you're going to help me." He reaches out with one ragged hand and touches the Face.

The giant eyes drift shut. "Go on." It's as though he's daring the Master to do something.

The Master is burning with fury and time and finally, with hope. He leans forward and presses his dry lips to the Face of Boe's. It's not a kiss of beginnings, but of endings.

When the Master pulls back, the Face of Boe is smiling again. "Be seeing you," he says.

"I think not," the Master replies. He finally has an idea, and if it works, there isn't going to be much universe left.


End file.
